


five times alistair wanted to get drunk...

by nightbloomings



Series: prompts [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Young Alistair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomings/pseuds/nightbloomings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and one time he actually did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five times alistair wanted to get drunk...

**i.**  
When Alistair was twelve, he followed Mathias through the darkened corridors of the Chantry. It was late, well past the time that the Sisters had blown out the candles in their dormitory. He asked Mathias where they were going in as loud as whisper he cared to use, but all he got for a response was a sharp wave of a hand. So Alistair kept his mouth clamped shut as they wove through the shadows.

They snuck past the open door of the pantry, and when Alistair heard Eugenia, the venomous head cook, he was sure that his heart would leap up through his throat at any minute. He nearly turned around and ran back towards the dormitory, but Mathias was now further ahead, and Alistair figured he’d rather face Eugenia and her rolling pin than the boy and his taunts. So he kept following and soon found himself out behind the Chantry.

There were four other boys there – huddled in a circle a few feet away from the building. He followed Mathias towards them and then he saw them passing a large flagon between them.

“C’mon, golden boy. Your turn,” slurred Robb. Robb was the biggest boy in the dormitory and, Alistair figured, probably the biggest boy south of the Hafter.

Alistair looked at the flagon as it was held out to him, and took it after a moment’s hesitation. He lifted it to his nose and took a whiff, and he recoiled at the smell. It was mead, but it smelt sour and bitter, and not at all pleasant.

“Go on, drink it. What are you, too good for our peasant swill?” said Bruno, a boy with a face like a mabari – an  _ugly_  mabari.

Alistair swallowed hard and lifted the flagon to his lips. Just as he started to tilt it upwards, he heard Eugenia cough and then call out something indiscriminate, just over his shoulder. He didn’t bother to see if he was in any real danger of being caught; instead he dropped the flagon on the ground and ran off in the direction of the hen coop, and not without a high-pitched, and rather embarrassing, yelp.

 

**ii.**  
Nine years later, Alistair was a newly-joined Grey Warden recruit. On his first night since the ceremony, he sat in the mess of the Denerim compound, at the end of one of the long, communal tables, trying to catch as much of the conversation that was flying around him.

“Hey, new blood. You want a taste?”

Alistair looked across the table at the proffered tankard, and the battered hand that held it. He couldn’t remember the name of the man that it belonged to – Pietr, or Petrus, maybe.

Alistair took the mug and tried to calm the shaking in his fingers. He still felt terribly weak, but he couldn’t let them all see, and they would’ve seen – every pair of eyes were trained on him at that moment.

He could still taste the darkspawn blood on his tongue; it was a terrible, acrid sort of taste, and it made his stomach contort over and over. He took a small sip of the ale, and the second the bittersweet of it washed over his tongue and mingled with the taste of what was already there, he felt a surge of bile rise in his throat. He shoved the tankard back at whichever Warden was closest and scrambled away from the table and away from the roaring laughter.

**iii.**  
Somehow, Alistair had managed to get used to Oghren’s unique ‘brand.’ It was a little bit sweat, but then that was common amongst all of them, most of the time. It was a little bit leather, from the trim his armour. But mostly, it was ale – sour, day-old ale. And he was starting to get used to the way he slurred nearly everything he said, too. Alistair knew he’d never be able to keep up with Oghren; even a fifth of that much ale would have him ass-up in a ditch somewhere off the Imperial Highway. And yet, Alistair found himself a little bit jealous, sometimes. Or often, depending on what they were up against. Now, after having spent nearly a week straight walking from Lake Calenhad towards Denerim, would be one such time where ale would be welcome.

But then, Alistair would watch Oghren make his way through whatever flagon held his fancy at the moment, and he would see the oblivious slurps or belches after each swig and decide that perhaps inebriation could wait until the next tavern.

**iv.**  
“So. I guess…  _this_ is really happening…”

Elissa smiled at Alistair feebly and gave a slight nod. “Yes… I suppose it is.”

Alistair let out a heavy sigh and looked at the closed door that separated them from the rest of the castle, beginning to dread the impending moment when he’d have to open it.

“I, um…” he glanced up at Elissa, and held her eye for a moment, and then scanned the room.

She moved to him and took his hand, running her thumb across the back of it. “What, Alistair?”

“Is there anything to drink in here? Some ale would be good, or maybe wine? Maybe I could go down to the kitchens… Eamon must have a stash somewhere around here.” He rose and pulled his hand away, and started to pace a slow track near the foot of the bed.

Elissa laughed a little and moved to him again, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Even some of Wynne’s rubbing alcohol? I mean, just a little bit probably wouldn’t hurt, right?”

“Love, you’re not drinking Wynne’s healing supplies.”

Alistair stopped pacing and turned to face Elissa. “Yes… right. That’s probably for the best.” He paused for a moment, and then sighed. “Okay,” he said, his tone defeated. He pulled Elissa in for a long kiss, trying desperately to imprint the feel of her lips on his. “I’ll be… back.”

He unlatched the door and moved into the darkened corridor. He crossed the hall and walked a few feet to his left, stopping outside the third door down. His hand shook at he reached forward for the latch and he let out a sharp huff, trying to steel himself. He turned the latch and crossed the threshold.

**v.**  
Alistair swallowed dryly as he saw the kitchen servant approach, flagon in hand. He reached for the goblet in front of him and held it out towards the elf, watching eagerly as she poured the dark red wine. He thanked her and was just bringing the goblet to his lips when a large, age-worn hand came from the periphery of his vision and took the goblet away.

“Hey…” Alistair looked up and was met with Eamon’s grimace.

“Sorry, Your Majesty, but I can’t let you drink, not tonight.”

Alistair huffed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s  _my_  coronation, you realise. I’m king now. Shouldn’t I be able to do whatever I want?” He meant it as a statement, but of course Eamon took it for a genuine question.

“Not everything, Alistair. Part of being king is being judicious with the choices you make. You have to realise that your decisions have a greater range of impact now, and…”

Alistair stopped listening and looked out around the room in front of him. All he saw was a sea of swirling silks and all he heard was a chorus of easy laughter. It was his coronation, yes, but it most certainly wasn’t  _his_  celebration.

 

 **vi.**  
Elissa paused outside the antechamber door and hefted Alistair further onto her shoulder. He hiccuped faintly and reached for the latch, trying to help Elissa to get the door open. She brushed his hand out of the way and opened the door, carrying him into the room.

Alistair freed himself from Elissa’s hold and stumbled forward, flopping down onto the large bed in the centre of the room. He rolled over onto his back and grinned at her.

“You know, this drunk-beyond-all-help look isn’t as becoming on the king as you might think it is,” Elissa said, standing in front of Alistair with her hands on her hips.

“Yes, I  _am_  the king, aren’t I? For a whole year now, too,” Alistair slurred, propping himself up onto his elbows.

Elissa laughed and began untying the laces of her bodice as she moved towards the armoire. “And to think I had a hand in all of that. I often wonder what I’ve unleashed on poor Ferelden…”

“Hey… I’m a good king!”

“You’re a drunken king.”

Alistair grimaced and gracelessly pushed himself up off the bed. “I am not  _that_  drunk.”

Elissa finished hanging up her dress and turned around, cocking an eyebrow at Alistair.

“I’ll show you,” he mumbled as he moved towards her. She stood still, waiting for him to reach her, with a small smile on her lips. He tripped as he walked, his toe somehow managing to catch on the completely smooth stone surface of the floor, and he fell into her a little bit. She caught him and helped him right himself, and he caught her mouth with his.

They kissed for a long moment, and Alistair was quite sure he’d proven his point when he pulled away. Elissa swiped the back of her hand across her lips.

“Satisfied now, my queen?” Alistair turned and moved back to the bed. He leaned a hip against the nearest post, but miscalculated his angle just-so and he stumbled back onto the tick, catching himself on his elbow

“Unfortunately, my love, kisses wetter than a mabari’s tongue don’t prove sobriety.”

Alistair watched as Elissa walked past the bed towards the wash chamber and tried to think of a viable retort. He leaned back, and was asleep before Elissa had had a chance to fill the wash basin.


End file.
